


can I get your number?

by babypapaya, singlemalter



Category: Formula 1 RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Gen, M/M, entire grid fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-28 06:20:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20773949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babypapaya/pseuds/babypapaya, https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlemalter/pseuds/singlemalter
Summary: driver numbers challenge: a fic for everyone in as many words as their racing number.





	1. Daniel Ricciardo, #3

_Miss me yet?_


	2. Lando Norris, #4

His lips are soft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (no homo)


	3. Sebastian Vettel, #5

You gave up, not him.


	4. Kimi Raikkonen, #7

Robin and Rianna are his favourite trophies.


	5. Romain Grosjean, #8

He wishes bunny ears were his worst problem.


	6. Pierre Gasly, #10

The bull stumbles, its rider falling—the stallion charges on.


	7. Sergio Perez, #11

Seeing a child waving a Mexican flag makes everything worth it.


	8. Charles Leclerc, #16

Call it self-gratification, cockiness, he doesn’t care—he’ll ride the wave of his Monza victory forever.


	9. Lance Stroll, #18

They call him daddy’s boy, forgetting to mention he also loves his sister, his dog,  _ and  _ the Habs.


	10. Kevin Magnussen, #20

Kevin pities his critics. Unlike them, he isn’t overtaken without fighting; perhaps that’s why  _ he’s _ the one renewed for 2020.


	11. Alex Albon, #23

George gives him chapstick: strawberry flavoured. Alex keeps it in his pocket, and it tastes like the man who gave it to him.


	12. Daniil Kvyat, #26

The champagne tastes amazing, pleasantly sour and bubbly—but it doesn’t hold a candle to the dinner served in the maternity ward, Penelope in his arms.


	13. Nico Hulkenberg, #27

“You won’t like that twink’s French better than mine, will you?” 

“You always looked good in yellow,” Dan admits. “Esteban could never.”

“Obliterate him for me, okay?”


	14. Max Verstappen, #33

He hates how Daniel lingers on the _yet_, as if Max’s yearning is a certainty rather than a stray possibility. It’s telling—Daniel knows him too well.

Deep down, he misses him already.


	15. Lewis Hamilton, #44

They loathe his confidence, his triumph, his unwavering sportsmanship; all the starving vultures in the paddock try to bury his achievements under their bitter, twisted lies, yet he keeps his head up.

He kneels in prayer over and over again, and still he rises.


	16. Carlos Sainz, #55

There are too many weights he carries by virtue of existing. His father’s blood, albeit known in a different sport; the flag next to his name, bringing on countless comparisons to his lifelong idol and the inevitable expectations from fans; the papaya orange of his car.

Sometimes, he just wants to be his own man.


	17. George Russell, #63

“I don’t know how Lando does it,” Alex complains. George watches Alex bite his cracked lips, dried out from endless air travel, and he remembers the conversation.

Next airport duty-free, he palms over a few coins in the drugstore for his purchases.

“Here, I got you a Chapstick, it’s just like the one I use.”

“What flavour is it?”

“Shall I show you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (yes homo)


	18. Valtteri Bottas, #77

Beneath the cool he's always been a people-pleaser. 

It shows in endless soothing of his parents pre-race: he’ll make it back and make them proud, it comes with fresh wildflowers for Emilia after every morning run at home, and everyone knows his puppy’s getting hefty from those extra treats.

When the strategy needs him, who’s Valtteri to say no?

_ To whom it may concern... I'll always have your back. _

Triumph’s dopamine tastes the same as Lewis’ smiles.


	19. Robert Kubica, #88

Pain burns through his arm, a reminder that he wasn’t the same man who’d walked into  _ Ronde di Andora _ like he owned the place. Simultaneously, triumph swells in his chest, because he’s done it—he’s survived the most physically taxing race of the year, in spite of the heat and humidity swallowing him whole. Today, he’s one of the twenty men in the highest level of motorsport, no matter how many times he’d been told his return was nothing more than a pipe dream. Today, he’s a champion.


	20. Antonio Giovinazzi, #99

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this initial standalone was the inspo for it all. you might have seen it before, so :)

Curling trembling fingers around the steering wheel grips, his palms are clammy with sweat, but the driving gloves aren’t off yet. The car’s vibrations cease for the first time in two hours,  _ parc fermé’s _ stillness granting him his first coherent thought. 

_ Finalmente, Giovi. Finally. _

_ That was great. That was shit. _

Unready to present himself yet—he doesn’t know how—first miracle lap leader since 2015? Fuck-up who missed his chances, who slips out with one precious point—no less, but god, no  _ more _ ?

His helmet will be dragged off soon enough, and he needs a face before that happens.

_ Better next time? _


End file.
